


From Hell He Came...And He Looked Good  (Like Really Good)

by HannibalSolo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adorable Reader, F/M, Reader x Crowley, Reader-Insert, Reader/Crowley - Freeform, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2434229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannibalSolo/pseuds/HannibalSolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of episodes following the same Reader x Crowley dynamic that occurs at non-specific point in the Supernatural story arch. There is some cussing and snogging, but it's really not so bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first episode is a might bit lengthier than I'd originally intended.

Crowley x Reader Insert

From Hell He Came…And He Looked Good (Like Really Good)

You sat on the motel bed attempting to discern if that oddly colored spot was a stain or part of the comforter pattern. After considering the possibilities, you opted for not thinking about it too much instead, feeling slightly unsettled and more than a bit grossed out. "Hey, Sam—Dean! Uh, are you guys sure you don't want this bed? I mean it's way cushier than that one and it's got way more…character, ehem." 

Sam chuckled and Dean looked at you deadpan, saying, "Oh, we're sure." You sighed and made a face at Dean and then at the mystery stain, whimpering a bit. You'd only run with the Winchester brothers a short while and were still experiencing all the myriad benefits of being "the new kid." This basically meant you got all the crap jobs and crap beds…Well, comparatively crap beds. Motels weren't generally known for their cleanliness.

Your hair was pulled back in a Lara Croft braid. Well, as best as you could manage, anyhow. The table near the door was littered with research books, newspapers, and in the midst of the chaos was Sam's laptop, which, frankly, had seen better days, especially since you'd dropped an encyclopedia on it the other week when Sam was out. Ever since, Sam had been puzzled as to why a couple of the keys were unresponsive, primarily the "v" and "w" and occasionally the "tab" button. He'd asked you about it, but you bit your lip and shrugged innocently, simply saying, "Wow, that's so weird. But it is a pretty old laptop, y'know. It sucks, man, but yeah…" Then you tittered awkwardly, though Sam didn't seem to find this suspicious, which made you severely question his hunter senses. But who were you to say anything, since it was to your advantage?

Dean pulled a beer from the mini-fridge, then looked at you. "Hey, _________, you want one?" You glanced up from the stain. 

"You kidding? Hell, yeah!" you said, a sucker for a good beer. A sucker for good alcohol generally, but especially dat beer. Heiniken was ass and Rolling Rock was okay, but Dean usually got Samuel Adams or Blue Moon anyway, so that was not an issue. In fact, when Sam once asked if Dean could pick up some Heiniken on his way out, you and Dean had a great bonding moment ripping into Sam over his taste in beer. Quite touching really. Just now, Dean feigned like he was going to chuck the beer at your head, but you knew him better by now and didn't flinch (well, didn't flinch as much), extending your arm out as Dean met you halfway. The cold bottle settled nicely in your hand. You rested the tip of the cap on the edge of the headboard and whacked down on it with your fist, smiling as it popped off with a satisfying click and thop!

Alright, so how you came to be where you were at present. Well, let's start from the start. You were born (better than being hatched or sprung from the ground or brought into being spontaneously I suppose), and you did this whole birth thing in a little state called Pennsylvania. Specifically, in a little mining town in Pennsylvania. Blah, blah, blah, filler, detail, blah. You do you boo. Anyhoo! You had a very loving mother, but poor, very poor. Absent father, and no other siblings. The Winchesters came into your little bumfucknowhere neck of the woods to hunt a frisky, gay vampire by the name of Gascard, who'd proceeded to seduce your prom date before promptly eating him. It's not the way you'd wanted to find out that your year-long crush could never be into you the way you were into him, but you knew deep down the dream was futile.

Still, the damn vamp ate your date. You were pissed. You thought this kind of crap only happened in Buffy The Vampire Slayer, and you were so not feeling a blood-thirsty monster making himself at home in your town. So, you went Blade on this Gascard douche (sans the being half-vampire yourself bit), and as can be expected you almost were eaten yourself. No, you were not rescued by Sam and Dean like a damsel in distress. Yes, they showed up, after your unsuccessful attempt at staking Gascard whose fangs were primed to rip your throat out, but you'd used the distraction caused by Sam and Dean to pick up a big-ass shard of glass from the dusty floor of the abandoned house G-man had shacked up in. (Warning: ick factor) You picked up that big-ass piece of glass and shoved it into G-man's neck, Dean rushing over and …finishing the job. Very blech. Much blood.

After explaining some things to you, which required much persuasion on your part, Dean and Sam took you home, planning on leaving you there and never seeing you again. However, your mother came rushing out and, seeing the blood, she paled and said, "No! Not more hunters—_________, how did you find out?"

To which you responded, "Dafuq?"

To which Dean and Sam added, "Double dafuq?" I'll let you fill in any blanks from there, 'cause I'm damn tired from this story-telling. Phew!

Alright, back to now, you were taking a good swig from the Blue Moon resting so perfectly in your little hand. No, your hands weren't dainty, but they were kind of cute. Look at you with your cute hands! They won't be seducing anyone anytime soon, but making someone smile affectionately at their adorableness is definitely in the cards. Oooo la la! The Blue Moon slid down your throat refreshingly and smoothly, and you were about to put your headphones in to blast what you considered good music but were nervous to play in front of Sam or Dean, when Sam and Dean both started to say something, stopped, started again, and stopped. "You first, Dean," said Sam, gesturing to his brother.

Dean gladly began, "Well, I'm tired as hell from this job we just finished, so I'm going out to a bar. Maybe I'll get drunk enough to do some dancing. You guys in? _________, you can just bring your fake I.D." 

Sam furrowed his brow slightly, "Well, I—I actually was meeting up with Sarah Jones for…dinner," he said, blushing slightly. Dean gave him an "Oh, really? And you were telling us about this…when?" face, but let it go. Sarah Jones was a woman you'd met while working the case you'd just closed. She was a witness to the first attack perpetrated by the shapeshifter you and Sam had tracked and Dean had ultimately ganked. She thought Sam was an F.B.I. agent named Sammy Hagar. You laughed just thinking about it.

Dean looked back to you. "So, what about you? You down for some Drunk Dancing Dean?" You quirked an eyebrow and thought about it for a minute. It might be nice to have the room to yourself. You could do some girly stuff like take an hour-or-more long shower or bath. You could do that two dollar face mask you'd bought at Wal-Mart the other day. You could blast your eclectic music out loud and air guitar on Sam and Dean's less icky bed. The possibilities stretched before you, tantalizing. 

"Well, actually, I'm kind of burnt-out after that shapeshifter business. I think I'll hang back here. Besides, Dean, knowing you, you'll meet some half-brained floozy, and you don't want to look like you're out already with another chick or like you're chilling with your sister. 'Cause that'd totally kill your chances. Just, please, don't bring said hypothetical floozy back here. Please don't," you said. Dean grinned boyishly and nodded.

"Alright, I'm out then. See you guys later. Oh, and, Sammy, have fun on your date!" Dean gave Sam an obnoxious wink before bolting out the door. Sam shook his head affectionately. Then Sam got up, straightening himself and getting prepared, before he too started for the door. 

"__________, I'll see you later. Stay out of trouble." 

You waved him off and said, "Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow, lover boy!" He blushed beet red and dashed out.

You were alone at last and you felt like God. Ruler of your (granted somewhat grungy) domain, and you were ready to go crazy. You started with the music blasting, grabbing Sam's laptop and opening your Amazon Music Cloud account. The first song to play on your shuffle was "Teenage Dirtbag" by Wheatus and you were in the zone. You went to the bathroom, carrying the laptop with you, so you could sing along as you showered, of course. 

You slipped out of your grimy hunter clothes, glancing at yourself briefly in the mirror before hopping in and switching the faucet all the way over, as hot as it would go. Indulging is a beautiful thing, and it made you feel like maybe you were a beautiful thing too. The hot water poured over your back and through your hair. You'd just rinsed the generic, but pleasantly scented shampoo out of your hair, when a gravelly but familiar voice said, "__________?" 

You, of course, proceeded to scream, before angrily growling, "Cas! Cas, what have I told you about sneaking up on people? Particularly people who are not fully clothed?"

You poked your head around the shower curtain to show the angel just how angry and irate you were, but his dopey little "I'm an angel who doesn't know any better, love me!" face made it difficult to maintain your irritable demeanor. "Cas, why are you here right now?" 

You asked this after he took too long to respond to your initial query. "Well, I need to speak with the Winchesters and you about…angel stuff," he said tentatively. "It isn't exactly urgent angel stuff…" You almost laughed at his awkwardness because he’d just figured out that behind that curtain you really were butt naked. 

"Cas, Dean is at the local bar in town called 'Red Beard's Brew,' and I'm sure he would love to talk angel stuff with you." Without another word, adorably-awkward-pants flew the coop. You chuckled and returned to your self-pampering, while Joe Strummer sang, "Rock The Casbah." The Clash was one of your favorites (you really get no choice in your musical taste in this insert because I will not give it to you, I've gone mad with power I tell you, MAD! MUAWHAHAHA!) along with Social Distortion, Radiohead, and Morrissey. 

As you continued to shower, you actually got to shave your legs (not just cheating by only doing your calves, but your full legs) and this was a particular relief to you, as hunting didn't always leave time for the finer things in life. Like having your legs shaved.

After you finished with that, you stepped out and moisturized and put on yoga tights, a tank top, a cardigan, and (drum roll please) some very, very fuzzy socks. Then you tied your hair back and did your little face mask. Finally, you finished that and realized you had nothing to do. Oops, poor planning, my friend, but luckily there was a Redbox right outside of your room. This was one of the fancier shitty motels you and the brothers had crashed at. You went out to the Redbox and decide to rent Prometheus because you liked sci-fi, and let's face it, a blond Michael Fassbender was something you'd never pass up on even if you had no idea how long he'd actually be in the movie. Why bother renting anything with aforementioned actor, when you know it'll just remind you how alone you are? Because you're a sad, masochistic bastard. But aren't we all to a degree? Oh, Michael Fassbender…

You were about to pop the dvd into Sam's laptop, as you curled onto what was supposed to be Sam and Dean's bed, but, hey, they were not coming back tonight, like seriously, when another disembodied voice interrupted you. But this voice was not familiar. No, you'd remember having heard this voice before, the way you'd always remember how Michael Fassbender looked in his spandex suit in “X-Men First Class.” 

"Well, hello, hello! And who exactly are you, love? I came looking for the Winchesters, but I'd much rather talk to you…" That thick Cockney accent slithered through your ears like fine scotch, almost giving you good shivers even as you were experiencing bad shrieks and spasming. You were freaking the fuck out, and I can't blame you. But you recovered your faculties in record time, when you took in the well-dressed, ruggedly handsome man standing before you and watching your reaction with interested and amused, rich brown eyes. 

Your own eyes were wide and alert, your eyebrows raised, as you stood on the opposite side of the room near to the door. "Name's Crowley, King of Hell, and you are?" He prompted again, waiting for you to engage. 

"I'm ________, hunter, and why am I not killing you?" You said bravely, but secretly trying not to piss yourself. 

"Well, for starters, because you're a smart girl, I would guess. Also, I assume the Winchesters would be devastated if I happened to kill you, which I would if you tried to kill me, and that wouldn't be too good for business at this juncture." The way he punctuated, "at this juncture" was more than a bit disturbing.

He smiled seductively at you, and you started to feel uncomfortable, quickly bringing him back to the matter at hand. "What do you want then?" you asked. 

"Ah, you see, _________, I'd much rather speak to the idiots face-to-face about it, but it involves demony things, business debts, and boring old rot. Nothing too pressing, I suppose, though I'd rather it didn't wait—Damn, Winchesters! Never around when you actually want them. So, I suppose I'll be going now—Wait a tick, is that…Radiohead? Are you a Radiohead fan? Now, you're even more intriguing and beguiling," he said playfully, advancing slowly. 

You hadn't paused your music yet, as Crowley had interrupted before you'd gotten that far. You nervously admitted that you were indeed a fan, moving to the laptop to hold it to your chest like a shield. "Well, I suppose I'll be going now. Unless, there's a reason I should stay." He had caught you checking him out almost blatantly just now (you were never very smooth about anything, try as you might, and you'd begun to think about how boring your night would be when Crowley was gone, and both the brothers would probably be with someone, while you were alone, very alone, and potentially horny and alone). You looked almost wistfully at his very bitable lower lip (then you thought to yourself 'Bad, self! He's the King of Hell!' But, hey, that doesn't make him any less sexy, yum, yum).

"Well, unless, you're interested in watching a movie with aliens and Michael Fassbender in it with me, I couldn't think of reason," you said, attempting to both be coy and maintain some dignity.

Crowley laughed. "I made a deal with Michael Fassbender once." Your jaw dropped, and you were in such a state of disbelief that it didn't bother you that Crowley walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, now close enough for you to smell his delicious cologne (smell is important, smell is clutch, and he smelled delectable). 

"No fucking way! You're totally shitting me aren't you?" In your excitement you forgot your filter. Crowley seemed all the more amused by this development. 

"Oh my, but you are a potty mouth. But I shit you not. He made a deal to have the best ass in the world and voila!" Now, you were really incredulous. So much so that you sat on the bed next to Crowley and pulled up google on the laptop. You googled butt shots of Michael Fassbender, and pointed to them, even as you tried not to drool all over the keyboard.

"You mean to tell me that, that beautiful, delightful, perky, wonderful thing is a—a lie?" Crowley scooted closer and leaned over your shoulder to take a gander. 

"I'm afraid so, love. A lie made by yours truly." 

You frowned and then smirked. "So, you are the King of Hell and the King of Asses." As you made this snarky remark, you turned to him and realized just how close your faces really were to one another. Oh, oops. He smelled really good and looked really good, and he’d made Michael Fassbender's ass. You wanted to kiss him for that reason alone, but so many other reasons came to mind as well. He was looking into your eyes with his own smoldering ones, and you felt conflicted, but mostly horny. Yeah, sorry, but it's the truth.

He deftly closed the laptop and tossed it on the next bed over without once breaking eye contact with you and inched in, pressing his lips against yours. Still in a state of indecision, you took a moment to process your situation, before saying to yourself 'Fuck it!' You pressed back, surprising Crowley. You slid your hands up his chest, looping them around his neck, as he rested his on your waist and pulled you closer.

The kiss intensified as you really started to feel just how alone you'd been. You started to break off into smaller kisses like little sexy blitz attack kisses (I’m so poetic, I know). One of your hands slid through Crowley's hair, and you broke away from his lips momentarily to kiss his neck, finding a sensitive spot in the crook and giving it special attention, which surprised Crowley again (you could tell because his breathing had become irregular). His hands began to push up and grip the edges of your tank top and tease around the edges of your pants. Then you bit him on the neck, and Crowley made a small growling sound, which was a good thing in this instance. 

He pulled away briefly to readjust before kissing you again, this time using his tongue, and using it very well, I might add. You'd never been kissed like this before, in fact, your first boyfriend kissed like Jabba the Hutt, and you hadn't kissed many people since. You weren't sure where this was heading exactly, but you were young and in the moment. Crowley pushed you down on the bed and straddled you, not violently but skillfully. Then it was his turn to kiss your neck, and you let out an ecstatic giggle when he did because it felt good but also kind of tickled.

Crowley pulled up from his work and looked at you, bewildered. "What's so funny?" 

You looked at him with a youthful and sincere smile and said, "Nothing, it just tickles a little when you do that." He quirked his head to the side and smirked. 

"How many blokes you been with, love?" You were struck by his question, a little indignant, but also embarrassed. You blushed deeply because the answer was zero. You fumbled for the words to explain this to the King of Hell.

"Well, I mean, actually…" You looked off to the side, unsure how to proceed. His face was priceless.

"Oh! You're—You're a virgin! Oh, well, love, we all were once and then never again!" He chuckled, trying to shrug it off. But for some reason he seems disquieted now.

Just then Castiel fluttered back into the room. "_________, I just spoke—Crowley! What are you doing to her?" 

You slapped your forehead, and Crowley hopped off of you, before saying, "Oh nothing bad. Maybe a bit naughty, playing smoochy with a sweet, pretty virgin, but you can hardly blame me. I mean come on, angel boy, look at her! Besides, the Winchesters were indisposed to speak with me, so this lovely creature lent me her ear…to nibble." Right at the end of this speech, Dean burst in drunk and happy (the latter for about two more seconds). 

"Ah, come on, what the hell!" Dean's face fell, when he saw Crowley and Castiel, and you lying on the bed. "_________, what's going on here?" 

Castiel stepped forward and said, "When I arrived Crowley was on top of _________ and says he was playing smoochy. I don't know what this is, but it didn't look…savory." Dean turned red, like scary red and was about to murderlize Crowley's demon ass, when you jumped between him and said demon ass, which you were still thinking of spanking. Yes, you were still horny, though you were equally confused.

"It wasn't like that! I mean he came looking for you guys, and then we were talking, and then we weren't talking…"

You explained everything so eloquently, but that didn't seem to soothe Dean, who was now mad at both you and Crowley. "You mean you made out with a demon because you wanted to! Ah, this is great! Just perfect! Now, I'm going to have to lock you in a warded cell and never let you out! Is that Radiohead playing—Ah, dammit all!" Dean ranted for a couple more minutes, while you tried not to exchange conspiratorially mischievous glances with Crowley, and Castiel looked around confused, but concerned for you and for Dean's emotional state. 

"Well, I'd love to stay, but I am the King of Hell. Things to do, people to see, people to torture slowly and then brutally murder. But I'll be seeing you all again soon. Especially you, love," Crowley said, giving you bedroom eyes, before pulling you into a steamy kiss in which he somehow managed to grab your ass with finesse and class, as he disappeared into thin air, leaving you in the awkward position of being turned on and ashamed. 

Also, there's the whole matter of calming Dean down, explaining everything to Castiel, and having to do the same thing all over again with Sam. But, boy, could the King of Hell kiss. And grab ass, let's not forget how well he grabbed ass. And made ass, I mean look at Michael Fassbender's booty and tell me Crowley didn't do a great job.


	2. Episode 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader's got a healthy amount of self-respect. Crowley appreciates that in a woman.

(Crowley x Reader)  
*This is a continuation of “From Hell He Came…”

It had been a little over a month since you met him. Crowley that is. The self-proclaimed King of Hell, who you had made out with. Really, it was Sam and Dean’s fault it happened. I mean, they’d left you alone for more than a couple minutes. Trouble was bound to ensue. Dean was only just beginning to let up on the criticizing, and Sam was doing his best to get Dean to back off. You were busy trying to forget how enticing Crowley had smelled…and tasted. Castiel hadn’t mentioned the incident at all, but then he was probably still very confused. Also, he had bigger things to concern himself with, like finding ways to stop whatever Apocalypse was happening this week, for instance. It was kind of a problem. Sam and Dean had just gotten back from facing off with an ice wraith, and they were both in somewhat sour moods. They’d agreed to meet you at your hotel room one state over, where you were staying while working a case. A revenant. Nasty business. 

You lay on your motel bed, staring at the ceiling, mind absently wondering into thoughts of how many other people Crowley might have kissed and whether or not you were particularly special among those many and various people. You assumed that you weren’t because that was the most realistic conclusion you could draw. “Trouble” by P!nk played in the background. You sighed, sitting up. A freshly opened Redd’s Apple Ale bottle sat on the bedside stand, perspiration rolling down its sides. You picked it up, taking a good swig and looking at the time on your phone. 

The boys had said they were an hour out the last time you’d spoken, which meant they were probably still a few hours away. You decided to get drunk to pass the time. Using your fake I.D., you’d picked up a couple six packs of Redd’s. It was a really addictive beverage. “Ganja Farmer” by Marlon Asher started playing on the laptop you’d inherited from Sam. He’d finally gotten sick of the old heap and bought himself a new one, which meant one thing to you. Free laptop. You nodded your head to the smooth reggae, feeling a buzz start to settle in from the second Redd’s you were throwing back now. “You are inebriated.” You jolted at the voice that suddenly spoke up from behind you, getting to your feet and whipping around. Castiel. Dammit, Cas. You grimaced and resisted the urge to face-palm.

“Cas, you know I love you, but could you call first next time. Or knock. Anything to give a girl a decent heads up, before you come materializing out of nowhere and scaring me shitless. And, for your information, I am not inebriated. I’m only on my second one, and I’ll not have anyone saying I’m a one beer queer,” you said matter-of-factly. Cas cocked his head to the side.

“A one beer queer?” he said questioningly. You had to chuckle at his innocence. 

“It’s a derogatory term for someone who can’t handle more than one beer before they’re sloshed,” you explained. “Sloshed being a slang term for inebriated.” He nodded, apparently understanding. 

“The more I learn about human culture, the more Dean’s behavior makes sense to me. I am not certain if that is a good thing,” he responded. You laughed heartily.  

“Probably not, but it can do a person good to take in a little bad, if that makes sense,” you said. 

“Are you sure you are not ‘a one beer queer?’” Cas asked in way of reply. You rolled your eyes, scoffing. 

“What did you need, Cas?”

“Well, I was hoping to speak with Dean and Sam about their recent encounter with the ice wraith,” he said. You were itching to be alone for a little while, and you called up the boys again to get their current location. Luckily they were at a stop sign when you called. Castiel quickly fluttered away to speak with them. You heaved a sigh of relief. 

After finishing your third Redd’s, you headed to the bathroom to shower, wanting to, at last, wash the scent of the undead out of your hair. Revenants made for particularly messy targets, since you liked to be thorough, which meant decapitating them, cutting out their hearts, and then burning everything. The warm water felt like heaven against your aching shoulder muscles. 

“Cry Little Sister” by G Tom Mac played, as you finished shaving your second leg. Rinsing the last of the shaving cream away, you turned the water off. You reached out for where you’d left your towel, but felt only empty air instead, making a growling noise from the back of your throat. “Dean? Sam? I swear to Castiel’s father, I am in no mood. I don’t give a crap if you faced off with an ice wraith today. I faced off with a revenant. Alone. And those fuckers smell, and they’re just plain unpleasant, so give me my towel,” you said. A soft, plushy thing was thrust into your waiting hand, which you pulled behind the curtain, relieved to find that it was indeed your towel. You wrapped it securely around yourself, yanking the curtain open and suddenly blushing furiously. “You’re not Sam or Dean…”

“No, love, I most certainly am not,” Crowley said, smiling wickedly at you. You stepped out of the shower and moved past him quickly, feeling intensely nervous. This was not happening. Except, it actually was. You really need to work on this whole denial schtick, dearest reader. “What are you doing?”

“Me? Just going to bust out the cake and streamers—What do you think? To put my freakin’ clothes on!” you responded with a scowl. 

A worn, blue duffle-bag sat on the second motel bed beside yours, its contents spread out in comfortable disarray, including your undergarments. You quickly started chucking those back in the bag, an awkward frenzy driving you to move with an almost inhuman speed, as you blushed the entire time. You picked out the underwear you’d need, wrapping it inside a tank top and some skinny jeans you rustled up from the pile. “Awww, no need to pick up on my account. I think we know each other well enough that it shouldn’t matter to me how much of a slob you are,” Crowley said with a deep chuckle. You shot him a cutting glare.

“Your mom is a slob,” you quipped childishly. 

“My mother is long dead, love. Now, come, come! You can do better than that. Of course, I have caught you at a rather compromising moment. You must feel exposed, vulnerable…” he paused, a malicious grin coming over his face. “Naked, in a word.”

You pursed your lips, not deigning to respond to his teasing. He sauntered over to you and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, sending shockwaves through you. You froze momentarily, which gave him enough time to start the next phase of his seduction. His lips grazed lightly along the crook of your neck, until he found your sweet spot. He seemed to need no indication that it was indeed the spot, pressing in upon it fiercely with his soft mouth instinctively. The protests that had begun to bubble up in you came out haltingly and stutteringly, soon falling silent entirely. You felt his tongue graze along your skin, his lips closing in again on your pulse point. Your legs felt like jelly, as you leaned into his warmth, closing your eyes. Then it struck you that you were like yesterday’s newspaper to this guy, good only to be perused over arbitrarily and tossed aside. Oh, Hell, no. 

With a certain amount of effort you pushed his hands away from around your waist, shoving him back with a very serious expression. He looked confused as all get out. You shifted a bit to the left, so that his body wasn’t trapping yours against the end of the bed. “Crowley, I can’t do this. I won’t. I’ve had a lot of time to think it over, and I—,” you paused, hesitating, “I am better than this.” 

“Well, that’s…different. Not that I am arguing, but I can’t pretend I’m not a bit disappointed. Mostly because I was really looking forward to being your first,” he said lasciviously in low, rumbling tones. Heat rose quickly to your face, as you tried not to let your embarrassment overwhelm you.

“Um, well, that’s very sweet for a—a demon. I think. But I’m sure there are plenty of other virgins who would happily throw themselves at you. So, yeah,” you stammered brusquely. He laughed and clucked his tongue.

“None of them nearly as interesting, I’m sure. A man likes a challenge every now and then, but have no fear, my dear. I will act as a perfect gentleman about it,” he said, leaving you feeling mystified. What was he on about? He couldn’t seriously be suggesting that his interest extended beyond the chance for an expedient lay. “When you have lived as long as I have, love, you learn to quickly determine if someone is worth taking the time. You are a woman worth waiting for.” He paused, looking uncomfortable for the first time since he arrived. Slowly he walked over to you, growing bolder when you didn’t back away. He placed a chaste kiss on your cheek, and backed away with a smirk. “I was going to come here under the pretense of needing to speak with the idiots, but that would seem a bit silly now, wouldn’t it? Farewell, my dear, until next time.” You blinked, and he was gone.

Soon you were dressed and sitting on your bed, drinking another Redd’s. It was your sixth one. Being as small as you were, you were starting to become ‘inebriated,’ as Cas put it. You were in a daze, running through your encounter with Crowley over and over again in your mind, analyzing it to death. “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by The Smiths played in the background. There was a knock on your motel door. You answered it, your eyes drunkenly taking in Sam, Dean, and Castiel, who piled in after saying hey in weary tones. Sam and Dean went on about the ice wraith, while you pretended to listen. “So, what have you been doing?” Dean asked. You looked up from the carpet, zeroing in on him like you’d only just noticed his presence. You shook your head side-to-side, as if to shake off the thoughts that dogged you relentlessly. You smiled faintly.

“Nothing, really. Killed a revenant. Now, I’m getting drunk,” you replied. 

“Yick, those bastards smell to high heaven when you gank ‘em. Nice work. I mean the getting drunk part, of course,” Dean said, simpering. Sam scoffed, remaining silent. Castiel sat quietly to the side. “Man, what a shitty day…Say, do you smell sulfur?”


	3. Episode 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened here, but I hope you like it :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To hunt or to lie to Dean and go on a date with Crowley instead? That's a rhetorical question because if you choose anything but the latter, you are officially cray cray in the membrane.

Crowley x Reader

*Continuing from “From Hell He Came…” Note: this fic takes place at an indiscriminate time during the Supernatural story arch because I have missed entire seasons of the show and not watched it consistently in a long time. The reason for that being that I have been so swamped because I like overloading myself until I blow up into bits of confetti. Sounds bad, but it’s actually a pretty cool party trick. 

There was something the boys didn’t know about you. It was one of the few things that you kept to yourself. Sometimes, you liked to write poems. Being a hunter, you didn’t have many reasons to think about things like poetry or literature, but occasionally you did just that. Ever since your second encounter with Crowley, your mind had been unsettled, and you found solace in ganking as many monsters as you could, but also, secretly, in your poetry. It became a more and more prominent part of your day-to-day life.

The air was cold today. Cold, dry, crisp even. It was mountain air, and you took it deep into your lungs, as you stood over the burning bones in the unearthed grave before you. You were just clearing up a pretty straightforward haunting in a small town nestled within the Appalachian mountains of West Virginia. 

The graveyard was on a ledge overlooking the east end of Scotstown; old, abandoned, and overgrown, the precarious pathway up had been hard to navigate in the dark, dead of night, but somehow you’d managed, toting a sawed-off shotgun loaded with rock-salt ammo. Thank God you’d burned the bones before that hillybilly spook caught on to what you were doing. You really didn’t feel like a fight. Now, the sun was rising, and the job was done. And you were cold, standing there, watching the morning creeping on. The sky was a deep, dark, thick blue, the stars seeming to shine all the brighter and more furiously now that their reign was coming to an end. You sighed, shivering as you watched your breath smoke out in shaky wisps from between your lips. 

“Time to go,” you muttered to yourself, picking the shotgun up from the rough, rock-littered ground.  You carefully picked your way back down the path, slipping on some loose stones along the way and scraping your hands when you broke your fall. “Ah, dammit,” you growled, looking at the bloodied and dirtied faces of your palms. You grabbed the shotgun gingerly from where it had clattered in the dirt when you’d fallen, grunting as you heaved yourself up, making it the rest of the way down without further incident. 

Stumbling into your room at the Chunky Gal Inn (no shit, that’s what it was called), you face-planted onto the bed and passed out. When you next awoke, your hands were throbbing and you had three missed calls waiting. Two from the boys and one from your mother. You groaned, dropping the phone onto the bed and stomping into the bathroom. Wincing a little, you ran hot water over the cuts and scrapes on your hands, flushing bits of rock and dirt out of the wounds. You felt like some sort of boxer, wrapping your hands afterward, as you did. The injuries weren’t really that bad, but band-aids wouldn’t stay on unless you held your hands open at all times, which would be a pain in the ass. So, bandages it was. 

You glanced at yourself in the mirror, frowning slightly and fixing your hair to your satisfaction. You went back into the bedroom and picked up your phone, dialing your mother’s number. “Hey, mom,” you said softly, when she picked up. As her only child, she was understandably concerned for you , especially considering your occupation, which she reluctantly permitted you to pursue, knowing full well she couldn’t stop you. Ever since Sam and Dean had come to your small town to gank that flamboyant vamp, Gascard and inadvertently uncovered your hunter heritage on your mother’s side of the family, your whole world had turned upside down. This wasn’t the sort of calling you personally were capable of ignoring. However, you still kept in contact with your mother on a consistent basis. It kept you grounded.

After you said goodbye to your mother, you called Dean, who picked up after the first ring. “Hey, Dean-o, don’t you know it comes off as desperate if you don’t let the phone ring at least three times before you pick up?” you said with a smirk. His gravelly voice crackled over the phone, while your signal fluctuated in and out. 

“Very funny. Where are you?”

“Scotstown, West Virginia. Bobby Budd, the trigger-happy spectre. Job’s done, but I was thinking of taking in the sights. You know, all those scintillating mineshafts and exciting snake-charmers,” you droned sardonically. “Oh, and all the eligible mountain men a woman could hope for. I’d love me a man who stinks of the lamp!” Finally you heard Dean let out a reluctant chuckle.

“Alright, alright, Chuckles. Enough goofing around. We need your help with a job. You got a pen and paper?” he asked. You glanced around you, spotting your journal and favorite mechanical pencil. You had a slightly unhealthy obsession with office supplies, particularly mechanical pencils. You’d just recently begun collecting mechanical pencils of all different sorts, but your favorite was a green one with a tattered grip and 0.9 lead. 

“Yeah, go ahead,” you replied, pencil hovering over a blank page.

“Okay, we’re in Lacoshua, Michigan at a motel called the—” He paused and sighed. “Called the Horny Moose Motel.” You frowned and stopped writing momentarily. Then you snickered.

“The Horny Moose Motel, Dean? Really?” you asked incredulously, as you burst out laughing. 

“Shut up! It was cheap and low-key,” Dean retorted petulantly. 

“Dean, I don’t understand. Why is she laughing?” said a very familiar voice.

“Shit! Cas, what are you doing? What have I told you about personal space and just appearing out of nowhere?” Dean cried out. 

“Which question would you like me to answer first?” Cas asked. Dean groaned.

“None of them. How soon do you think you can be here, _________?” Dean asked. 

“Uh, give me a second. I’m still calculating my route. Oh, looks like 64 is blocked by an over-turned tanker. Recalculating, recalculating, recalculating—”

“Put a cork in it, smart-ass. Cas, don’t touch that—please, _________, just tell me you can be here soon,” Dean said, sounding exasperated.

“I’ll be ten hours probably. Where the hell is Samelina?” you asked.

“He’s at the coroner’s office, checking out the bodies again to see if we missed anything. Just hurry. I’ll see you soon,” he said, hanging up. 

You rolled your eyes and dropped the phone and the journal, falling back on the bed with a huff. Staring morosely at the ceiling, you pouted and whimpered like an upset puppy. “I don’t wanna drive for ten hours just to work another job! Meh!” you yelled at no one in particular. You didn’t expect anyone to answer. 

“Then don’t go, love.”

You shot up and were about to scream (because, well, reflex), but a hand pressed over your mouth. The bed shifted as someone sat down behind you. Your heart was in your throat, as the hand slid from your mouth and trailed down your spine, resting on the bed. You turned to glare at Crowley. “Don’t you assholes know how to knock? That’s why doors were invented. I mean like, imagine all those kids who would have walked in on their parents doing it without doors to protect them. Or all the people who would have walked right in on the guy spewing his guts into the toilet during the party because there was no door to stop them. So, doors. Use them. As in, knock on them, wait an appropriate few moments for a response, depending on the circumstances surrounding the knock, then enter if you receive the go ahead. That’s a little something called etiquette. And for a guy who probably wears Westwood suits or whatever, I cannot imagine that this is really a foreign concept to you,” you said, taking a deep breath, as you’d begun to run low on oxygen. Crowley quietly watched you rant with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow.    

“While you make some valid points, I have to be honest with you, love. I am a gentleman, but I am also a king. Of Hell, no less. I’m not going to start knocking any time soon. Anyway, I’ve got an interesting proposition for you. Instead of going and hunting some inane creature that will probably regurgitate, excrete, or ooze some unpleasant smelling substance that won’t wash out of your hair for weeks, wouldn’t you rather go see the Coliseum? The Eiffel Tower? The Louvre?” He observed your wide-eyed expression with something akin to smugness. 

“Do you even have to ask?” you sputtered, breaking into a huge smile. Then your face fell. “But I can’t just abandon the boys. Dean sounded pretty harassed. What if whatever they’re hunting kills them or something? I know that’d be like Christmas for you, but I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to them, when I could’ve been there to help them.” Crowley rolled his eyes, but smiled good-naturedly.

“They’ve survived a lot worse than what they’re hunting now. Plus that daft angel’s there to help them. They’ll be fine. So let yourself have a little fun. Let your hair down. Metaphorically speaking,” he said. 

“How do you know what they’re hunting?” you asked, narrowing your eyes and pursing your lips. He chuckled softly, scooting a little closer and leaning towards you. You refused to be intimidated by his presence, holding your ground, though just barely. You had the absurd urge to giggle because you felt so awkward having your faces this close together.

“You should know I have eyes and ears…absolutely everywhere,” he said in a stage whisper with that deep, almost rough accent, as he gave you a quick once over. 

“Uh-huh, well, so does Mycroft Holmes, who I have fantasized about in the shower. A lot. So, excuse me, if I’m not impressed,” you responded sweetly with a smug smile. 

“Oh, really? So you do have a thing for men with power? Good to know.” He winked, while you worked your jaw. He had you there. A lot of your fantasy crushes were men with considerable power, much to your chagrin, and most of them had bad attitudes. Mycroft, Loki, Moriarty, Spike, Rafael Barba, the Master (Doctor Who), Hannibal (one of your most shameful ones), Michael Fassbender in almost every role he’d ever been in…and the list went on from there. “I wonder what that says about you as a person,” he mused, chuckling. 

“It says nothing, absolutely nothing. So hush your face and keep my name outcha mouth,” you said hastily, crossing your arms and looking away. He grinned. Before he could say something else to embarrass you, you turned back to him and added, “As far as places I’d like to see…well, I’ve always wanted to go to Innsbruck. Y’know, in Austria. I’ve heard it’s beautiful. What with the Alps right there and all.”  Your eyes took on a sort of dreamy quality as you imagined the colorful buildings and the cold, rolling river with the unfathomably grand mountains rising into the sky, capped in bone white veils. 

“Mm, good choice. Bit unexpected. But then that’s so like you,” he commented dryly. You rolled your eyes.

“Oh, and you would know?”

“I’m a fast study, love.” He fell quiet for a moment. “Well! Innsbruck it is then. Get your things together and we’ll be off. I’d recommend bringing a coat.” 

You gave him a funny look, glancing down at the pea coat you were already wearing over your hoody, but opting not to comment. You threw your journal and pencil into your sleek back-pack. There wasn’t much more to grab. Everything else you owned was either in your merlot red 1969 Cheverlot Camaro that sat parked outside or in the safe house you’d wrangled with the help of a couple other like-minded hunters. You called Dean to tell him you were having car trouble and would be delayed for a day. He was disappointed, but not devastated. “Alright, Mr. Crowley, I’m ready to go!” You skipped over to him nervously, trying to look confident and cheery. He gave you a knowing smile and suddenly he was yanking you towards him, arm around your waist. You stumbled, bracing yourself against his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his suit vest, as your face burned bright pink. You fixed your gaze on his silk, crimson tie shyly. He brushed a stray hair away from your face, forcing you to look at him.

“I thought you’d never say that.”

Suddenly you were no longer standing in your room at the Chunky Gal Inn, but in the middle of a street paved with smooth, grey stone. Tall buildings encroached around you, many of them painted a faint, pleasant yellow. The air was crisp like the air you breathed during your lone vigil over the hillbilly’s grave the night before, and your eyes opened wide like an owl’s eyes, trying to take in everything at once. It was gorgeous, and the new contours that greeted your sight were sharp and sizzling with a fresh energy. It took you a moment to remember that you were standing in the middle of the street in Crowley’s arms. A little, well-dressed, old woman was passing by on the sidewalk and glanced over at you two, smiling kindly. “Oh, young love. That is so sveet.” Your mouth hung open, before you protested.

“Oh, no! Um, we’re not—we aren’t…” you trailed off, as she continued on her way, oblivious to your stuttering. Your mouth fell open again, while you watched her walk down the street. 

“If it wasn’t so cold here, I’d say you were likely to catch flies gaping like that,” Crowley said, bringing your attention back to the situation at hand. You pulled away, clearing your throat.

“Well, yes, thank God for small miracles,” you joked. 

“Come along then, love,” Crowley said suddenly, walking over to the sidewalk. You followed him over, and he gallantly offered you his arm, which you took cautiously, interlocking yours with his and walking in step with him. 

You spent the day exploring old town, looking through curious little tourist shoppes and countless head shoppes, where you made Crowley laugh with your commentary on which pipes and bowls you liked best and why. You’d picked up one bowl made of glass, which was carved into the shape of a howling wolf next to a wood surrounded lake. “This one really matches my aura, what do you think?” Crowley had smiled, picking up a pipe carved into the shape of a naked Venus.

“I don’t know. It’s a little rustic. This pipe, however, I think would complement your ‘aura’ very well. Much more sensual.” You’d cracked up, unable to contain your giggle fit.

“Ricky Ricardo from ‘I Love Lucy’ had a sensual aura. I’m about as sensual as that hillbilly spirit I ganked in West Virginia.” Crowley had shaken his head, smirking at you.

“You’re the most absurd woman I—” he’d broken off, laughing, though not unkindly. 

Later you stopped at a café to get something to eat. You opted for a light fare because you wanted to save room for the beer. Yes, das Bier. You were not disappointed. Crowley enjoyed observing your enthusiastic response when you tried it. “Sweet-angel-sighs-above, that’s amazing—and so smooth!” you exclaimed, ogling the half-liter glass of weiss Bier. “I think I’m in love.” Crowley scoffed. 

“Well, that was fast.”

“Hey, when you know, you know. Besides, it’s easy to love this beer. People come and go, often pissing me off as they pass, but beer—beer done well that is—could never piss me off,” you said with a swashbuckling grin. 

“Oh, well, that’s nice. You’re very cynical, you know,” he said, taking a sip of his scotch.

“Well, if I am, I have my reasons,” you retorted, simpering. 

“Oh? Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“More than one,” you said, laughing. “And I really haven’t been alive that long, so I can’t imagine how many stories an old man like you must have.”

“Hey! I like you, but I’m still a demon. I’ll do horrible, demony things to you if you don’t watch it. And besides, most of my stories are fairly gruesome anyway. Not good table talk, sweetheart.”

“Oh, c’mon! I’m a hunter. Not to mention, I have morbid fascinations. You know I once watched a youtube video of this guy going through all seven stages of lanthrax poisoning,” you said, completely full of shit and paraphrasing Zevran’s line from Dragon Age. 

“Lanthrax? I’ve never heard of it…”he said, eyeing you skeptically.

“Really? Evil guy like you? I’m surprised and a bit disappointed really. It’s very nasty stuff,” you said, straight-faced and sipping your beer, feeling a strong buzz setting in.

“Oh, what bollocks. You’re completely full of it!” he cried. You giggled giddily.

“Why, yes, I am. But messing with you is too much fun.”

“I can promise you that you won’t be feeling that way for long,” he threatened.

“Ha! I regret nothing. Besides, I’ll feel how ever I want to because I do what I want, and everyone can suck it,” you said matter-of-factly. 

“Well, you’ll hardly make any friends with that attitude.”

“Please, most everyone else is either an asshole or an idiot or both, so why be friends with them? I don’t need many friends anyway,” you said smugly.

“Then why be a hunter? Going around fighting evil and saving people?”

“It’s in my blood, and I talk a lot of shit, but just because people are jerks or stupid doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a chance to live their lives. People aren’t generally all that bad, I guess. Doesn’t mean I trust them, but I certainly don’t hate them or wish them ill,” you explained. 

“In your blood?”

“Oh, yeah, on my mom’s side.”

“But not your father’s? Did he know?” You were surprised that Crowley was making these sorts of inquiries. They seemed so personal.

“No, not on my dad’s. I don’t think he knew. At least, mom never mentioned him knowing. My mom wanted out of the life, but it kind of followed her anyway. My prom date had gone outside for a smoke, and I went out to check on him. I saw him chatting rather intimately with an older guy and watched them leave together. It struck me as fishy, so I followed. Turned out he was a gay vampire named Gascard, and he ate my prom date. This vamp looked a little too settled for my liking, so I busted in there and almost got eaten myself. Sam and Dean were in town hunting him and came in just in the nick of time. So, I grab this huge shard of glass from the floor and—well, you can guess the rest,” you said ruefully.

“So, your prom date…turned out to be gay?” Crowley asked, humor twinkling his eyes.

“That’s what you got from that story? You’re a horrible listener,” you said, laughing. “And anyway, the saddest part is that he kissed better than my first boyfriend, who actually wanted to kiss me.” Crowley cackled.

“That is sad. I suppose I don’t have to ask what’s the best snog you’ve ever had,” he said, winking obnoxiously.    

“It’s true. Mycroft Holmes really gives a good snog, even if it’s only in my mind. Of course, we do a lot more than snog the way I imagine it,” you said, smirking for all you were worth.

“You are an evil woman—and hard-hearted!”

You waggled your eyebrows and finished your beer. “I know.” You’d already finished eating, and settled back in your seat, looking at the surrounding plaza, watching the people pass by, feeling the urge to write something about it or about the way Crowley looked. He looked good, as usual. You glanced at him occasionally from the corner of your eye. He watched you through narrowed eyes. “Let’s take a walk along the river side,” you said, moving to stand. “How do we flag the waiter down for the check?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I know the guy who owns the place. Well, the demon who possesses the guy, who owns the place,” Crowley said, standing up and walking back into the street. You tactfully tried to ignore that remark, though the hunter in you screamed to go and exorcise that demon ASAP. Strangely enough, Crowley didn’t set off your senses like that at all.

You strolled along the Sill River arm-in-arm with the King of Hell, pondering what on earth you were doing here. You liked him. You were painfully aware of that. You’d even been writing poetry about him. ‘Eyes like God had spilt fine scotch across the sky,’ was how you had described the color of those charming orbs. Heat rose to your face just thinking about it. Crowley must have recognized the flash of embarrassment that had run across your face. “What is it?”

“Eh, it’s nothing—just bad poetry,” you said awkwardly. He stopped moving turning to look at you curiously. He gave you a pointed quirk of the eyebrow and you groaned. “My bad poetry. Some of it sprung into my mind and just the thought of it was—gah!” You shook your head.

“You write poetry?”

“Well, yes, but it’s no good. It’s just that I have a lot of thoughts is all,” you mumbled, staring at your shuffling feet and feeling mortified. 

“Now, that, I have no trouble believing,” he said, tilting your chin up with one hand. “It’s part of why I like you.” He smiled, looking into your eyes with an inscrutable emotion. You couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just being flirty. Abruptly the air became charged with a tense uncertainty, and your heart sped up, when just as quickly Crowley dropped his hand and turned away, offering you his arm again. 

The sun was beginning to set, and Crowley turned to you. “I think it’s time I took you home, my dear. Are you ready?” You nodded placidly, and suddenly you were back in your room at the Chunky Gal Inn. In the blink of an eye, Crowley was kissing your cheek and backing away. “Thank you for an enlightening day. Catch you later, sweetheart.” He winked and vanished, leaving you a confused, little hunter with a lot of things to think about.


End file.
